Nat Wolfe; or, The gold hunters: A romance of Pike's Peak and New York

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

"Wait till we have supped on fresh meat, and we shall have all the particulars, no doubt."

In the mean time, the two most exhausted of the little party reclined beneath the cottonwoods, quiet and silent. It was delight enough to see the water glittering before them, to hear the parched leaves rustle, to inhale the delicious odor of the venison broiling over the coals—their frames were in that state of weakness and languor when soul and sense are both most easily stirred. It was such a joy to feel safe, to be cared for, to wait for the feast which kind hands were preparing. The hour to both was one of strange, new happiness, as of souls taking their first repose in Paradise. Although neither of them tried to analyze their own emotions, the consciousness of what they had thought and felt and read in each other's eyes during those perilous hours just past was secretly thrilling the heart of each. Nat's eyes dwelt almost constantly upon the young girl's face, who scarcely raised her own, so conscious was she of that ardent gaze—a slight red spot in either pale cheek telling the story of her own feelings.

While this little tableau was being silently enacted, the brow of Dr. Carollyn was growing dark as a thunder-cloud, while his eyes flashed covert lightning from beneath. He was troubled, discontented, angry. He had found a child, a daughter, whose want of accomplishments suited to the rank he should soon confer upon her was fully counterbalanced by her exceeding beauty, grace and natural refinement. He had already felt more pleasure than had filled his breast in seventeen years, in dreaming of how he should develop that fine mind and cultivate those unconscious charms. That she still retained all the innocence of childhood his keen observation had convinced him, the first hour of their meeting—that strange chance meeting, which had told him in that wild place and in that unexpected way that he had a child!—a truth he had often dreamed over, doubting and wondering. When he first went, in the camp of the emigrants, to do a kindness to women and children, he had been moved in a mysterious manner at the first sight of that young face—he had felt thrilled by an electric shock, before he perceived the ring. That was the key unlocking the marvel. He knew in an instant, more certainly than as if it had been sworn to, that he saw his child—the child of his Annie. He knew as certainly that Annie was dead—else, never would his daughter have been here under such circumstances. He had no need to question any party now—indeed, he could not at first, the shock was so sudden. That night he had crept to the side of the slumbering girl—he had sat and watched that sweet face bathed in the lustrous moonlight, while great, hot tears rolled over his cheeks. Her face was not Annie's—it was very lovely, but it was not Annie's—so fair, so angelic, with golden ringlets and deep-blue eyes. No, this was his own likeness softened by youth and sex, but his own. The dark, curling lashes, the raven hair, the clear brunette skin, the passionate mouth, the proud brows were the softer type of himself. This was his child, indeed, only that the pride of his own expression in hers was a calm melancholy, telling, ah, how piteously, of the heart-broken musings of the desolate mother who bore her.

With tears such as men seldom have such occasion to weep, he had kept watch, in the repose of midnight, by his daughter's slumber; then, softly slipping the ring from her hand, he had stolen back to his own camp-wagon, to waste the rest of the night in the recollections of bliss and agony which the sight of that wedding-ring had brought back almost as vividly as if the events of those long-vanished years had happened yesterday.

It was not surprising that the next day should find him too much shaken in spirit to feel like unraveling the thread of mystery connected with his wife and child. He would linger by her side another day, observe her, and the people who had her in charge, and, as soon as he was calm enough to hear what there might be for them to tell, he would make himself known to them.

The devastation of the tornado the following night had interrupted his plans and plunged him into new distress. But, through all his fears for the fate of Elizabeth, sweet hopes had whispered to him that he should find her, that he should take her with him to the home which nature had fitted her to adorn, and he had exulted in the thought that she was still but a child—"in maiden meditation, fancy free"—whom he could guide, develop, sway. She was pure and beautiful—this was enough for him.

This was the cause of the thunder-cloud now gathering over the heaven of his anticipations. In these two days that his child had been snatched from him, had come a change. He saw the blush in her cheek, the new luster in her drooping eyes. He saw the man who had found and cherished her would be loth ever to resign the treasure he had, as it were, secured a right to.

Nat Wolfe little suspected the searching jealousy that was reading his every thought and action. He did, indeed, although he had scarcely thought at all about it, feel as if Elizabeth was his own—as if he never more could leave this child to the dangers of the rude life she was compelled to live—as if he must take her in his strong arms, shield her against his strong breast, and keep, hereafter, the winds of heaven from blowing upon her too roughly.

But if he had been conscious that the haughty gentleman who had taken so deep an interest in her rescue, had claims stronger than his, and would bitterly deny his right to advance his own, it would not have changed his resolves.

Nat Wolfe was not a man to yield the mastery to any one. His will was not to be ruled. His pride was as stubborn in its way as Dr. Carollyn's. He despised the effeminacy of city civilization more thoroughly than anyone despised the rudeness of his handsome, courageous manhood.